


The Clock Never Stops, Never Waits

by SherlockianSyndromes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianSyndromes/pseuds/SherlockianSyndromes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first day.</p>
<p>The waiting begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Clock Never Stops, Never Waits

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this story to [ashinan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ashinan/pseuds/ashinan), who beta'ed this for me and motivated me to finish. I haven't written fic in a long time, but Sherlock has given me enough feels to inspire me.
> 
> Title inspired by the song "Annie Waits" by Ben Folds.

It's the first day.

The waiting begins.

It's the first day, and John Watson sits in his armchair and stares at the chair across from him. His chair.

It's still his. It will always be his.

The flat is silent apart from the rain pattering on the window. Everything is gray outside, making the colors inside muted and...

_Dull_.

John hears the word inside his head, repeating over and over again in an exasperated baritone voice. He blinks, turning his head toward the door, expecting Sherlock to walk in: his dark, curly hair soaked, his navy scarf hanging around his neck, his coat drenched and sticking to him like another skin.

Nobody there.

~

_Am I sleeping? Am I dreaming? Where are you? Where am I?_

_John stands on the street, but it feels unsteady and turbulent, like a black ocean of tar writhing beneath his feet. The building in front of him is tall, so tall, so much taller than before (before? before what?)._

“I'm a fake.”

_He's heard these choked words somewhere else, knows they are a lie the instant they reverberate inside his mind._

“Nobody could be that clever.”

_John's world is shrinking. The sky comes rushing towards him. Time speeds up like everything has been put on fast forward and there it is, there_ he _is, silhouette dark, his arms flailing up and down. As if he is trying to fly._

“Goodbye, John.”

_John begins to scream his name. He always does. Then the earth swallows him and he is buried too. Just like Sherlock. If he digs long enough, John could find his body, and then... then it wouldn't matter anymore._

~

One month.

It's been one month and John can hear Mrs. Hudson in the flat, moving about. Dishes clink. Furniture squeaks and shudders. The kettle sings.

First, it was Sherlock she took care of. Then it was Sherlock-and-John. And now it's only John.

Timid footsteps towards his bedroom door. Timid knock.

“John? I made a cuppa.”

He doesn't say anything at first. It's gray outside. Still. He hasn't gotten out of bed and he doesn't know what time it is. He doesn't care, really. It's hard to shake the void that's growing inside him. Like a cancer.

John wishes he could cut it out and be done with it. _If only it were that easy._

Another knock. He gets up, pulls on some clothes, opens the door and greets Mrs. Hudson with a sad smile. She reciprocates and hands him a cup of tea.

He should feel grateful that she tries to take care of him, tries to nurse him through what many are referring to as “a rough patch.” Instead, John sits across from her, listens to her prattle on about nothing, smiles and nods whenever she extends sympathy.

Then she leaves, because Mrs. Hudson knows she can't do anything for him. No one can.

By then, it's dark. John limps over to the sofa and turns on some bad telly, even though he knows he has an early shift at the surgery tomorrow.

He catches himself glancing at the door.

~

_I never did believe in miracles_.

“Nor I.”

_Oh. This dream. John hates this dream the most, even more than the nightmare of reliving Sherlock's fall. He hates it because it feels like Sherlock's here, like he's just been on holiday (why would Sherlock go on holiday without me?) and finally returned._

_Autumn leaves are falling onto the sidewalk they tread, trees surrounding them on either side. Flashes of orange and red. The crackle and snap of each leaf under Sherlock's determined gait. Everything is violently vivid except for Sherlock's dark, wispy form, now far ahead of John._

“John? Are you coming?”

_Sherlock's voice doesn't lack clarity, but it sounds so far away. John rushes to catch up (Sherlock was always two, three, four steps ahead of me) but the pain in his leg is excruciating and the limp is so pronounced and terrible (not real not real is he real?) and Sherlock keeps walking. He doesn't wait. Why couldn't he wait, why did he try to lie, why..._

~

Mycroft's sitting in Sherlock's chair, and John tries to pretend like it doesn't bother him, and he fails. It's been six months, and this is the first time he's seen Mycroft since the funeral. But he assumed someone must have been paying Sherlock's half of the rent. In his absence.

John offers him tea, his smile strained. Mycroft shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and prepares to get down to business. He doesn't want to be here either.

“Do you have plans for the future, John?”

John squints and cocks his head to the right.

“Plans?”

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Sherlock's seat. _Wrong Holmes._

“It's been six months, John. I've paid his part of the rent in an effort to give you time to grieve. I am curious as to when you are planning on finding another... flat.”

John feels the slow tremor building in his hands. What is this? Anger? It's been so long since he's felt anything—it's a shock to the system. This adrenaline is riveting and terrifying and he welcomes it. He'd rather feel anger than sadness. Something, rather than nothing.

“You think six months is long enough, do you?”

He knows Mycroft can hear the edge in his voice, sharp and unforgiving. He doesn't care.

Mycroft stands and walks toward the door. John turns, just to watch him go. To see if his eyes would be filled with the same pity John sees in everyone else's. Mycroft stands in front of the door, but doesn't open it.

“I'll continue paying his share until further notice.”

John murmurs a thank you. He knows that if Mycroft truly wanted him out of the flat, he would find a way to get him out.

Mycroft turns the door knob slowly and takes one step out before turning to face John. Instead of pity in his eyes, John finds a hushed sadness, buried beneath all the layers of classic Holmes misdirection.

“Will it ever be long enough, John?”

Mycroft's footsteps fade down the stairs, out into the street.

_No._

~

_If that night had ended differently... would you still be here?_

_John asks himself that question each time he finds himself in this dream. The smell of chlorinated water, the air damp. Everything tinted in shades of blue and green. John's kneeling (leg feels fine, even though I might die here tonight), Sherlock's pointing the gun, and Moriarty can only smile. Like he's daring Sherlock to pull the trigger._

_This is a dream, so Sherlock doesn't hesitate. He gives in. John launches himself at Sherlock the moment the bullet leaves the gun, but everything is so slow. The bullet reaches the Semtex vest. Moriarty's smile disappears. Deafening explosion. Fire. Weakened structural integrity. John feels his hands push hard against Sherlock's tensed body, throwing him into the pool._

_The snipers. John always forgets about them. One, two shots. Pain. Blood (at least it's mine). Burning. But Sherlock's in the water. Sherlock is safe (please don't drown, please try to understand, I'm saving you, I'll die saving you, that's how it should be)._

_That's how it should be._

“Do you mind if I get that?”

_That phone call ruined everything._

~

Each milestone has hurt, but this one digs its way under John's skin, crawls through every one of his veins, and lodges itself inside his brain. One year. One whole year of limping through life, one year of waiting for Sherlock to walk in to 221b and explain himself.

One year of waiting can leave a man more hopeless than he's ever been—at least in John Watson's case.

Lestrade asks John to join him for a pint, and John wants to say no, but knows that if he doesn't, Lestrade will show up at 221b and the thought of talking about Sherlock amidst his dust-covered possessions on the one year anniversary of his death might send John over the edge.

_Hell, maybe drinking's a good idea at this point._

Lestrade is sitting at a table in the darkest corner of the pub when John arrives. He's already nursing a beer and he looks anxious. John leans heavily on his cane as he walks over to the table and nods at Greg as he takes a seat. He orders a beer and the waitress who brings it to him is pretty and blonde and smiles at him. She has nice teeth.

He sits in silence with Lestrade. It's not uncomfortable, but it is definitely a little awkward.

“So, how are you, John?”

His voice is stiff and mechanical. John quirks the left corner of his mouth in a tiny half-smile.

“Today's probably not the best day to ask me that.”

“I know, I just... I miss him too, mate. Even if he did make a bloody mess out of my career.”

John takes a deep breath, and he's trying so hard not to make it obvious, but he hasn't quite mastered the art of burying these feelings. Not yet.

“I'm sorry, Greg.”

“Don't be. Those news reports were a load of bollocks.”

John's laugh is bitter.

“Even you were fooled for a moment. I don't blame you. You're only human.”

Lestrade looks at him, and, wait for it... there's the pity. John chooses to ignore it. Lestrade sighs and John already knows what's coming.

“Look, John, I know how much you cared about him—“

“I still care.”

“I know, and that's the point I'm trying to make. It's been a year. Don't you think it's time to start moving on? I mean, moving out of the flat would probably help with that. I don't think Sherlock would want you living this way.”

John smiles, but there isn't any bitterness in it this time. Just sadness. He knows Lestrade is only trying to help, and he should appreciate it, just like he should appreciate Mrs. Hudson for looking after him on the really bad days, just like he should appreciate Mycroft for continuing to pay Sherlock's part of the rent.

Instead, he orders another round, and Lestrade doesn't say another word on the matter. The blonde brings them pint after pint and John finds himself staring at her a little longer each time she walks away.

Everyone is so convinced that John can be healed, that he can be saved from the emptiness Sherlock left in his place.

John really wants to think so.

_What do you think, Sherlock?_

~ 

_This is where I should have been. Not down on the street._

_A new take on the nightmare. John's mind still struggles with the prevention of Sherlock's death. Could he have saved him? Can he save him in the dream?_

_Does Sherlock want to be saved?_

_Moriarty lies dead before him on the ground, and it feels like justice. The grief brought on by Sherlock's death had overridden any elation at the fact that Moriarty was dead too. But the gun is in his hand. Sherlock hadn't been the one to kill him. So many questions that remain unanswered. Maybe that's why John can't let anything go._

_Sherlock's standing on the roof's edge, and for the first time ever in John's dreams, he's inexplicably clear. He's usually so blurred and far away, but he's here, within reach, and it hurts even more, considering what he's about to do._

_So John does what he would have done, if he had made it to the roof. He steps onto the ledge next to Sherlock._

“John?”

_It's like music._

“I'm here, Sherlock.”

“You shouldn't be.”

_John takes Sherlock's shaking hand in his, and Sherlock doesn't flinch (oh I must be dreaming)._

“Does it matter?”

_Sherlock's crying again, and John thinks he might be too. He's too distracted by those silver eyes, blinking away shining tears, to care (there's so much I should have said)._

“John, I have to jump.”

_For some reason, John doesn't try to argue. If Sherlock's made his decision, if John can't ever stop him from jumping off of the Bart's rooftop, then he knows what he has to do. It's a simple choice. He made it every time he ran through the streets of London, following Sherlock's lead (I might die tonight and that's alright with me). John squeezes Sherlock's hand and nods, never tearing his gaze away._

“Wherever you go, I follow, right?”

_Sherlock smiles and it's the most beautiful thing John's ever seen. It's beautiful enough that John never wants to wake up again. Sherlock's going to die, but John will die with him. It feels as if this was how it was meant to be. Voidless._

“Thank you, John.”

_Not goodbye._

_Together they fall, but they never hit the pavement. Instead they fall forever, hand in hand..._

~

The date had started off so well.

But it isn't Mary's fault that it had been two years from this very day. It isn't Mary's fault that John had caught a glimpse of someone who looked exactly like Sherlock out of the corner of his eye while they were at the restaurant. It isn't Mary's fault that John had gone to his grave today, talked out loud about Mary and how Sherlock might not hate her all that much, and felt a presence he couldn't shake off.

Even after all this time, John is still waiting for his miracle.

Mary Morstan has put up with a lot from him, bless her heart.

But he sees whatever this thing happens to be between himself and Mary crumbling around him. She's not yelling, but she's unhappy. He's trying to find the words to explain what's going on inside his head, but her green eyes burn a hole in his skull, maybe even his heart, and all he can do is make the same apology he's been making for the last two years of his life.

“I'm sorry, Mary.”

She shakes her head, her blonde curls bouncing around almost viciously.

“Don't say that. Don't.”

She's starting to cry. John's not sure how to react, so he gets up, limps over to where she's standing and puts his hands on her shoulders gently, as if he's afraid she might break.

“What do you want me to say?”

Mary chokes back a very bitter-sounding laugh.

“I don't know John. I don't know what I want you to say. I've tried figuring this out, figuring you out, but I don't think you even have yourself figured out.”

John chooses to say nothing, because he knows she's right.

“I shouldn't have to compete with a dead man, John.”

She knows she's crossed the line, and for once, it doesn't seem like she cares. John turns away from her, the world spinning, his breaths deep and measured, but it's all in an effort to stop the walls from breaking.

“I want you to think about something.”

Mary's voice is even, but barely so. John feels his hands shaking. He clears his throat.

“What, Mary?”

“I want you think about why you're still waiting for Sherlock Holmes to walk through that door. Think about why it still hurts after two years.”

She goes to grab her coat and her purse. John feels her hand on his shoulder, and he wills himself to look at her, even though he's embarrassed of the silent tears falling down his face.

“You loved him, John. You were _in_ love with him. That's why you can't let it go.”

Mary's hand slides down his arm, and she takes his hand, squeezing it gently.

“That's why I can't be with you.”

She drops her hand to her side, turns away and walks out the door.

Silence all around now. John collapses in his armchair, and stares at the empty one across from him. It feels like the first night all over again. He's crying, but it makes him feel lighter now, like he could just float away, up through the ceiling, into the night sky of London, and out into space.

_I loved him._

_I love him._

_Can you hear me, Sherlock?_

_I love you._

~

_I wonder what you would say._

_This dream is new. John doesn't pay close attention to dreams when they are new, because chances are, he'll be seeing it again and again. That's how this particular game has worked since Sherlock ceased to be._

“There are different states of being, you know.”

_John's sitting on a bench in a park he doesn't recognize. It looks as if it's winter, but he doesn't feel cold. Sherlock appears next to him, adjusting the collar on his coat and giving John that Look that he hates._

“I guess I do know this one. You're gone, but sometimes it's like you're still here when I close my eyes.”

_Sherlock smirks._

“Feeling sentimental, John?”

_John knows that if he ever has this dream again, he'll love it the best. He misses this. The banter._

“I suppose so. You should give it a try sometime.”

_Sherlock seems to be blushing (I need this dream like air I won't ever wake again) and he looks away from John, folding his arms tight across his chest._

“Not really my area.”

_John can only giggle, the familiarity of the line hanging in the air. A pleasant memory. Out of nowhere, Sherlock's taking both of John's hands in his and looking him in the eye. The dream world fades around the edges._

“You know I have to go, right?”

_John can only nod._ _He can feel himself waking._

“Wait for me. I promise we'll see each other again.”

_John feels Sherlock's hands slip from his grasp, hears the bench creak as Sherlock gets up to leave. His footsteps make the edge of John's vision vibrate._

“Sherlock, I've always been waiting...”

~

John's eyes open, and nothing is different.

Except something is different, he realizes. He puts his feet on the floor, stretches his arms above his head, and sighs loudly.

_As of today, it's been three years._

Somehow that thought doesn't feel like a weight in his chest. Maybe it's because of that dream. John smiles to himself. _That dream will definitely be my favorite._ He reaches for his cane and gets out of bed. He overslept a little bit, but he doesn't mind so much. The only thing on his agenda today is going to Sherlock's grave.

John has a lot that needs saying. And today he feels like he's ready. He's ready to say the thing he had been afraid to acknowledge for the last three years. He's scared, but only of himself. After all, no one will be around to hear it.

He makes his way into the kitchen to make some tea and toast. He's lost inside his own head, filling the kettle with water, finding a mug, putting some bread in the toaster. John doesn't hear the tentative knock at first, but the second time he does, and he assumes it's Mrs. Hudson, wondering when they'll be leaving. She goes with him as moral support, because he usually needs it by the time the visit is over.

“Come in, Mrs. Hudson, I'm just making a—“

His hair is cut shorter than his usual length. It's a strange mixture of colors, his dark roots showing through a dye job that attempted to turn his hair blonde or ginger. John's not sure which. He looks thinner. His scarf looks worn. So does his coat.

But it's the eyes. His eyes are the same.

_Dreaming. I'm dreaming. I have to be._

“John.”

_No no no. This isn't real. How did I not realize I was still asleep?_

The kettle whistles. John doesn't move. Neither does this apparition of Sherlock, at first. He must be a ghost, because the speed in which he closed the gap between himself and John to take the kettle off the burner is inhuman.

“John, are you okay?”

John wants to reach out and touch him, but he knows that won't prove if he's dreaming. He does anyway, his hand shaking as his fingers brush the worn fabric of Sherlock's coat sleeve. He's dizzy. It feels so real, so palpable, so true. John's legs give out from under him and he's on the kitchen floor.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Please tell me this is real. Please. I need this to be real._

Sherlock's face is hovering over his, and John can see his mouth form his name. John blinks, and then Sherlock's saying something about shock. _Going into shock? Am I in shock?_

John tentatively reaches up and cradles Sherlock's face with his right hand, brushes his thumb over those ridiculous cheek bones.

“Are you real?”

Sherlock nods quickly.

“Yes, John, I'm real. I'm real.”

John sits up and pulls Sherlock into a tight embrace. Sherlock tenses at the contact at first, but soon his arms are around John and John can't stop crying.

Finally, when John's tears subside, he pulls away to look at Sherlock, _beautiful, real Sherlock_ and says the first thing that comes into his head.

“I dreamt of you. I dreamt of you all this time and you told me to wait. I did.”

There's a flush over John's cheeks, but he ignores it, choosing instead to brush the gentle curve of Sherlock's nose with his thumb. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut, the soft trail of a tear catching against John's skin.

“I know, John. I dreamt of you as well.”

John smiles, laughs, can't stop laughing because this is everything he's ever wanted.

“The grave today. I was going to say it. Had it all sorted in my head. And now you're here.”

Sherlock's eyes widen, shock momentarily calming the tears. He leans forward, his forehead gently pressing against John's, his mouth slowly turning upward in that smile John had missed with every breath he took.

“I understand. I can see it, and... oh, I've missed you, John.”

Sherlock breathes out, silver eyes bright and alive.

“Have dinner with me?”

John laughs again, still shaking with freshly awakened emotion.

“Oh God, yes.”


End file.
